A War Poem
I rebel against
tight tanned teenage bodies,
hoeing, and
cooked mushrooms.
I am a woman now.
Five children
pregnant-birthed-nursed
to widen flatten sag
me down.
I hide under clothes.
Usually.
But I flaunt
my battle scars in the garden.
I used to hoe
girlishly,
rushing the tool,
chopping wildly.
Now I sit small,
swimming suit and shorts,
sunscreen baked and
smeared with dirt.
I nip and tuck
weeds
between thumb and finger,
soil and green plant stains
grinding into the creased wrinkles
of my hands.
Neighbors could see me
if they squinted
through the wooden fence slats.
But who would look?
I am a woman now.
Tasteless brown slimy vegetables,
I do not have to eat
if I don’t want to.
I do not want to.
Kylie Nielson Turley no longer weeds in her swimming suit since the stake president stopped by unexpectedly, much to her embarrassment. She is thrilled that her five kids are old enough to work in the garden and surprised that her oldest adores cooked mushrooms since she never fixes them. Kylie wants her kids to notice that she will eat cooked mushrooms (if they are served) because it’s not nice to be picky.
